William Forstchen - The Final Day

“Or what, sir?”

“This morning, my ass is on the line as well. I’ll explain it later, but things with Bluemont have never been a love match from the start, of late have gone very sour, and you, Colonel Matherson, you and your friends have finally pushed me over the edge.”

“Which means?”

“Your call, John. If you don’t trust me with this, and suspect I am playing some game to deliver not just you but six of your friends to Bluemont as icing on the cake, then get the hell out of here now. If you trust me I want six of your best with me within two hours. I want them as additional witnesses as to what is going to happen next. When all is said and done this day, many might not believe me, but they just might believe you and your friends.”

John again looked at the map. He was not sure exactly what it was that Bob was plotting, but it was not what he expected just twelve hours ago when arrested.

“Okay, sir,” was all he could say in reply. Across a lifetime he had learned that far too often when someone said “just trust me,” it was a prequel to getting a knife in the back. Bob was asking him now to not just put his own life on the line, but those of some of his closest friends and comrades as well.

But there was a cold logic to it all at this moment. If they were about to be betrayed, Bob’s prediction that Bluemont would take his community off the map with an air attack was undoubtedly true and his friends would die anyhow.

He again looked at the lines Bob had drawn on the map, what it implied, and he finally made the decision. If Bob’s intent was to betray them, they were all dead anyhow. If not, he would have to trust his old commander’s offer.

“Okay, sir, I’ll give them a call, but chances are they’ll refuse.”

“I won’t blame them if they do, but I sure would appreciate their presence this day. I can have a Bradley up there in an hour to pick them up and bring them back. I hope they sign on.”

John looked at the map one more time, still not sure where this was all leading. Some pieces were beginning to fall into place, memories surfacing from his time at the War College and a stint in the Pentagon.

“I’ll make the call.”

John climbed into the troop compartment of the Black Hawk and looked across to the opposite row of benches. Maury, Grace, Forrest Burnett, Reverend Black, and Kevin Malady seemed relatively at ease, but Lee was already cursing under his breath while Maury helped him to adjust his safety straps. They had all been rousted out by his call to the town office. By chance, Forrest had come in from over the mountain when hearing that John had been arrested, demanding to lead a rescue operation before he was hauled away. The fact that all of them had actually trusted his voice, over a phone, to board a Bradley sent up from the airport and that it was not a trap to round up those who had served with him spoke volumes.

The door was about to be slid shut when, to John’s surprise, Bob Scales climbed in, followed by Sergeant Major Bentley and a young staff sergeant toting several different radios. Behind them, extra boxes of small-caliber ammunition were loaded in, finally followed by a medic dragging aboard a couple of boxes of medical supplies.

The pilot looked back over his shoulder. “Sir, we are overweight!” he shouted.

“Just get us the hell up, burn off some gas, and we’ll be fine!” Bob shouted back. “I’ve seen worse!”

“Your orders, sir,” the pilot snapped back.

Bob looked around at John’s friends and smiled. “So I suppose you’re all wondering why I asked for this meeting at eight in the morning with the snow coming down.”

“You’re damn straight,” Forrest muttered, and he finally added on, “sir.”

“Time later—now just enjoy the ride, I always get a kick out of liftoff.”

The eight Black Hawks and six Apaches started to taxi out from the parking area in front of the National Guard hangar, ground crews watching them, bundled up against the blasts of the rotors and the moderate snow coming in from the west.

Rather than do a straight vertical takeoff, they actually taxied down to the end of the runway, the lead Apache turning to face the wind and with wheels still on the ground built up forward speed before finally nosing up. John looked forward through the windshield of the Black Hawk to watch the show.

Forrest was leaning up out of his seat to watch as well and started to chuckle. “Remember that damn movie, the one with the bugler blowing charge? We actually used to do that in the ’Stan if a bunch of us were lifting off and going in harm’s way. Got your blood up.”

“Shut the hell up,” Lee muttered, already clutching his vomit bag. “If I’d known this involved another flight, John, I’d have told you to screw off.”

Three Apaches lifted off first and then circled high to protect the rest of the formation. The Black Hawks were next. John’s pilot shouted a warning to hang on. He rolled forward at full throttle, shifted the collective, and nosed up high, Lee moaning as they lifted into the swirling snow. Gaining just a few hundred feet, they leveled off and turned to a nearly due north heading.

“It’s going to be nap of the earth most of the way!” Scales shouted. “Might get bumpy at times with this weather. We’re going to follow Interstate 26 over the mountains, angle east once through the pass until we pick up Interstate 81, and then straight on from there. Low and fast. Should take about two and a half hours. We’ve got a hot thermos of coffee for those who want it; otherwise, just settle back, try to get some sleep, and enjoy the ride.”

His words were met by a heavy retching from Lee, and there were a few gags from the others until the slipstream shrieking past the helicopter whipped the stench away.

There had been a barrage of questions from John’s friends as they wearily alighted from the Bradley at eight in the morning and were handed Kevlar vests, helmets, M4s, and combat packs. The situation was not helped when Lee saw that they were being shepherded to a Black Hawk, its engines already running.

Maury started to shout questions at John about what was going on and where they were headed as the chopper leveled off. John pleaded real ignorance as to what was transpiring, and all looked to Bob, who remained mum. The group settled into sullen silence as they raced north, interrupted only by Lee’s pathetic heaves. The medic finally plastered an antinausea patch behind his ear and give him a couple of pills to swallow, and just as they were clearing the top of the I-26 pass at the Tennessee border, Lee finally settled down thanks to the medication and drifted off to sleep.

John sat lost in silent contemplation. He was putting one hell of a lot of trust in Bob at this moment, trusting not just for himself but for the lives of his closest friends on the line as well. The penciled lines on the map, whatever they meant, could have been just an elaborate ruse to lull him into belief and ultimately to lure in his best combat leaders and closest friends, one of them the only man in their whole community who could, in a clumsy way, actually fly a Black Hawk. For Bob to personally deliver them to his leaders in Bluemont, the murderers of their precious Fredericks, would be quite the coup.

He looked over at Bob, who, like any old hand with likely thousands of hours in Black Hawks, had settled into his bucket seat, stretched out his feet, lowered his head, and simply dozed off. There was precious little to see out of the frost- and snow-covered side windows. Up front, the view was just a blur of snow and glimpses of a deadly still interstate highway as the chopper banked to a northeasterly heading with Interstate 81 on their left. John caught a glimpse of what looked like an abandoned airport, its snow-covered runway running parallel to the interstate. John had a flash of memory; it might have been Mountain Empire Airport. He recalled it as a friendly place when several years back he was up with a friend in an Ercoupe, and they landed to get gas and some Coke and crackers. One of the mechanics noted that a cowling flap had cracked loose on the antique plane. It looked to John that the bent-back metal from the cowling would mean they would be stuck for hours. The mechanic simply bolted it back in place and literally charged them just a dollar and a half for the bolt.